


Till It Shines (The Secret Life of Rodney McKay)

by wesleysgirl



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:37:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4358228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleysgirl/pseuds/wesleysgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate universe where John Sheppard is a science fiction writer, he's getting his ass kicked by writer's block and moves to a small town in Maine for a fresh start in the form of one Rodney McKay, who as it turns out is more than meets the eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till It Shines (The Secret Life of Rodney McKay)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to altyronsmaker for the spectacular beta and title. All remaining errors are my own.

  
John moves into the house on Winifred Street in late February. It's about as far from the ideal time to move as he can think of, with eight inches of snow piled on the sides of the roads and just enough ice on the pavement itself to make his car tires slip. The third time the car skids, he reminds himself to get snow tires put on it, because as frustrated as he's been with his life lately he doesn't want to actually _end_ it.

The first night in the new house (which is rented because John's not ready to even think about putting down roots, not yet) he sits on the couch amidst piles of boxes and steels himself for what's next. He came here, to the middle of nowhere, to work, hopefully without interruption, and that's what he's going to do.

He leaves for the grocery store the next morning, and as he's pulling out onto the street, a neighbor lifts a hand to him, coming closer. The woman is about John's age, has straight shoulder-length hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a bright, wide smile. John rolls down his window. "Hi," he says cautiously -- she doesn't look mad, but you never know.

"Hi! I'm Jennifer. Keller. I'm across the street." She points back over her shoulder at the little yellow cape. "I just wanted to say, you know, welcome to the neighborhood."

"Thanks," John says, relaxing a little bit. "Sheppard."

"Is that your first name, or your last name?" Damn, she's cute as hell, and she's giving him a look he isn't unfamiliar with.

"Last name. John." They shake hands, which is awkward through the window.

"Steve told me you were going to be renting the house while he's gone. Oh!" She makes a gesture that imitates hitting herself in the forehead. "I'm the town doctor, and my office is over behind the library, so if you need anything -- emergency opinion, late night antibiotics, whatever -- just let me know."

John nods, feeling overwhelmed. "Thanks. I appreciate that."

"Well, I can see you're on your way out, so -- bye! Have a good day." Jennifer turns and heads back to her driveway, and John pushes down on the gas pedal and goes on up the street.

The grocery store is more cramped than what he's used to, and he wonders as he passes the third group of people chatting in as many aisles if this whole small-town thing is something he'll be able to adjust to.

In aisle five, there's an old guy wearing a supermarket smock stocking the shelves. John has to maneuver his cart around the pile of boxes carefully and it strikes him, not for the first time, how different his life has become. The challenge of steering a shopping cart compared to flying an F-16...

"Ow!" A solid looking guy who'd been studying the side of a juice bottle turns to glare at John as John's cart clips the edge of his.

"Sorry," John says, then, "Wait, did I even hit you?"

"Maybe not, but you could have! Try being a little more careful." The guy narrows his bright blue eyes at John, scowling, and John decides the best thing to do is mutter a second apology and beat a hasty retreat up the aisle, so he does.

He can't find half a dozen things he considers staples, but maybe he can learn to live without them. There have to be other supermarkets within a reasonable distance, right? Or maybe he can order some of it through Amazon. One of the best things about the house he's renting is that it was already wired for cable, so getting a modem and router was a fairly simple proposition. "Guy on your street was willing to pay a small fortune to get pushed to the top of the list about five years back," the cable guy had said as John signed the paperwork. "Easy enough to add everyone else once all the hard work was done."

John loads the groceries into the trunk and pushes the cart over to the corral, then turns to cross over to his car again. He leaps back in alarm as a steel-gray SUV comes within inches of him, shouts, "Watch it!" and thumps the side of the vehicle with his fist when it screeches to a halt.

The jerk from aisle five is behind the wheel, blue eyes wide and shocked. His mouth opens like he's going to say something, but doesn't, and John lays into him with a little more force than is probably necessary.

"Asshole! Why don't you watch where you're going? I could have been some kid! What the fuck were you thinking?" John's heart is pounding with adrenaline and he's got a grip on the door of the SUV, both hands clenched around it where the window is rolled down.

"Oh my God," the guy says. "I'm sorry. I'm -- just let me go. Please." He's trembling, gasping for air, and John wonders if there's something seriously wrong with the guy.

Carefully, he lets go of the SUV and steps back, then watches as the guy drives away.

It takes him five minutes to shove the food into the fridge and cupboards -- he hasn't spent any time figuring out where things will go, so it's mostly a matter of opening doors and pushing things onto shelves in random groups. Of course, once that's done, he has to accept the fact that it's time to go to work.

It's not that he doesn't enjoy writing -- he does. He's just not always in the mood.

Still, try telling that to his agent.

John has written one science fiction novel (he'd wanted to publish it under a pen name, but had been talked out of it, a decision he sorely regrets now) and has made, and continues to make, a ridiculous amount of money off it. It's even been optioned as movie, although John keeps telling himself that nothing will come of it.

He had to do _something_ after his brief but colorful not-quite-career in the military, and he's always had a good imagination. Writing a book seemed like something to try. He'd never in a million years have thought he'd be so good at it.

The book is about a distant galaxy full of vampire-like creatures that suck the life out of people. They're called Wraith -- John isn't sure why -- and apparently they're pretty scary. Personally, John has always had kind of a phobia about bugs, ever since this one time he found a tick stuck to his neck, and the thought of really big tick-people just sort of made sense.

The problem now is that John's agent wants the sequel, which wouldn't _be_ a problem except for the fact that John hasn't actually written it. He's spent hours at the computer, typing three words only to erase them again. It's enough to make John crazy, and finally when his agent suggested he go somewhere remote where he can't waste so much time with distractions, he decided it was worth a shot.

The rental house is fully furnished and moderately to John's taste, so at least he won't be wasting even more time imagining what he'd do with the place if it was his. There's a tiny office with a perfectly good desk and even a comfortable chair, and all he has to do is plug in his laptop and get to work.

Instead, John snoops through the desk drawers -- lots of pens and pencils, a stapler solid enough to serve as a weapon, many old and apparently paid bills -- and then through the office closet, which has a file cabinet in it but not actually any clothes. He goes to the window and opens it to let in a tiny amount of frigid but fresh air, sits down, then gets up again and shuts the window when the breeze ends up being too cold.

His fingers have barely settled on the keyboard when his stomach rumbles. Lunch time! Meals are a great excuse to get away from the work that he's not doing anyway, and he makes himself a turkey sandwich with meat he wasn't sure would be good but which turns out to be amazing. He manages to stretch lunch out for forty minutes, and then he's back at the desk wishing he were somewhere else.

Swiveling the chair, John leans back and looks out the window that faces the back corner of the neighbor's house and both yards. There's an awful lot of snow out there, a thought that reminds him he'll need to find someone to plow the driveway when there's a storm. He isn't opposed to shoveling, but it's kind of a long driveway and his back can be pretty cranky when he pushes too hard.

John spends ten minutes adjusting the chair, trying to find the perfect height and angle so his feet will be flat on the floor but he won't risk carpal tunnel of his wrists. Does carpal tunnel even occur in other places? A quick check of Google proves that it doesn't, though there's something similar that can happen to the feet that's called something else. Ah, Google, a procrastinator's best friend.

In the end, John writes four hundred words that afternoon and gives up gratefully just before five p.m., though in reality it's not like he has anything better to do. He isn't hungry yet, so instead of making dinner he goes into the den and turns on the TV and the cable box, following the directions Steven left written on a post-it. Ah, modern technology. John leans back, props his feet up on the coffee table, and flicks through the channels one by one, taking his time and making mental notes of the channels he's most likely to watch.

He finds out about good ol' Stevie-boy's love of porn when he gets up into the four hundreds. "Steve, you old dog," he mutters, grinning. "Kinky bastard."

There are a dozen porn channels, some of them more interesting than others, and John is half-erect by the time he cycles back to the first of them again. There's a woman on her knees in front of a big blond guy, sucking his dick and looking up at him adoringly. Her hair is short -- if John wanted to, he could narrow his eyes and pretend she's a guy.

It feels twisted, jerking off in someone else's den, but John does it anyway. His dick is tender against the slight calluses on his fingers that must be the result of packing and moving, even though a dozen boxes and a couple of suitcases shouldn't have been enough to cause calluses on anything but the most sensitive of skin.

He must be getting soft.

Well, other than his cock, which seems to like the change of scenery just fine. It must be the house, John thinks after he comes, wiping his fingers on the jeans shoved down around his knees. Too bad the house is going to have to settle for one guy masturbating a few times a week, because he's pretty sure this is one of those towns where random hook-ups aren't an option.

John stands, pulls up his pants, and goes to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. While he's standing there at the sink, he glances out the window and blinks at what he sees. His car's window is broken -- he never even heard it -- and -- is that smoke? Yeah, there's definitely smoke coming out of his car. What the fuck?

He hastily shoves his feet into his boots and goes out without a jacket. He jerks open the car door and sees what looks like a homemade rocket lying on the seat, still smoldering but apparently not, at least, in danger of setting the fabric on fire. John uses an ice scraper to knock the rocket out onto the driveway, and as he's standing there, hands on hips, looking down at it, a pair of shoes appears in his line of sight.

"I wondered where that went," a man's voice says, and John looks up into the bright blue eyes of the jerk from the supermarket.

"It went through my window," he says unnecessarily. "You aren't stalking me, are you?"

"Oh, for God's sake," the guy says, rolling his eyes. "Yes, of course, that's exactly what I'm doing, because it isn't as if I have a list of hundreds or possibly even thousands of better things to do with my time. I live next door, you idiot. What's your excuse?"

"I'm renting Steve Caldwell's house while he's gone," John says.

"Right!" The man snaps his fingers, hesitates, then offers his hand for John to shake. "Doctor Rodney McKay."

Shaking is automatic, instinctive; John doesn't have time to think about it before he's doing it. "John Sheppard. I'd have thought this town was only big enough for one doctor."

"What? Oh. No, no, I'm a scientist, not a charlatan like those so-called 'medical doctors.'" McKay actually makes air quotes with his fingers and John stares at him, convinced he's never seen anyone do that before. He turns and looks at John's busted window. "Hm. Sorry about that. I'll pay for it, of course -- just send me the bill."

"I will," John tells him and waits, but apparently that's it. McKay has picked up the rocket and is examining it. "So... no explanation for why you were setting off a rocket that was aimed at my car?"

McKay glances up at him impatiently. "It wasn't -- oh. Yes. I mean, no -- no explanation. You got an apology -- isn't that enough?" He takes a step backward and glances over his shoulder toward his back yard, then leaves hastily, stumbling as he tries to retrace his own path through the snow.

The forecast says there won't be snow for a few more days, so John waits until the next morning before dealing with the broken window. He sits at the window that faces Jennifer Keller's house across the street, sipping his coffee and checking to make sure her car's still there every half-minute or so. When he sees her front door open, he goes out and crosses the street.

"Hi!" she says brightly.

"Hi." John tries to find a balance in his grin -- friendly, but not _too_ friendly. It's a fine line and he's never really mastered the art of walking it. "I need an emergency opinion."

"Oh, no, are you sick?" Jennifer tilts her head to the side, frowning, and John rushes to reassure her.

"No, nothing like that. But I need a recommendation of a place to fix my window. On my car."

"Well, that's a relief." Jennifer has a wide smile, like a little girl's. "That it's nothing more serious. It wasn't kids, was it? You know, throwing snowballs or whatever? Because I can help you figure out who did it and point you in the right direction toward their parents. Just don't be too hard on them, okay?"

"It wasn't kids," John says, relieved that it's finally his turn to speak. "It was my neighbor. McKay? Although I guess since he shot a rocket through it you could argue that he's just a big kid."

Jennifer raises an eyebrow. "With a genius IQ and a bank account that could buy every property in this town," she says.

"That guy? Seriously?" John isn't sure whether to be impressed or... impressed. "He seems kind of... you know. Um..." Realizing that Jennifer might be friends with him, he tries to think of the most tactful way to put it, and eventually decides on, "Anti-social."

"People aren't always nice to him," Jennifer says, which John can't even begin to translate. "So, about your car -- there's a garage down in the center of town, near Beckett's grocery store? That's Richard's place. He'll fix your car right up."

"Great. Thanks."

Of course, because this is a tiny town in the middle of Maine, Richard Woolsey can't get a new window in for three days, and seems to think it's actually good news when he tells John. "Don't worry," Woolsey tells him. "You can leave your car here until then -- we'll put it in the barn out back so if it snows you won't get a car full of the white stuff."

John does his best not to sound too irritated. "How do I get home?"

Woolsey checks his watch and grins. "If you don't mind waiting five or ten minutes, I think I can hook you up with a ride."

Something about that doesn't sit right in John's gut, but he sighs and nods and settles himself into the one creaky chair against the stoop. Sure enough, within five minutes a familiar steel-gray SUV pulls in next to the pumps and the driver, one Dr. Rodney McKay, gets out and comes over to the building, eyes narrowing as he nears John.

"What are you doing here?" McKay snaps.

"There's the slight problem of my broken window," John drawls. He might actually be enjoying this, mostly because of the expression on McKay's face and the indignation in his voice, like McKay thinks he owns the world.

"Oh, good, there you are. Right on time. We can count on you like clockwork." Richard Woolsey, rubbing grime off his knuckles with a rag that doesn't look much cleaner than his hands, nods at McKay and then calls, "The doc's here for his gas!" to the other little guy with glasses who's wearing what's apparently the garage uniform of blue coveralls.

"What, you have a schedule?" John asks, grinning.

"Everyone should have a schedule," Rodney says haughtily. "Schedules are very important. Schedules provide a sense of security. I always fill up my tank on Mondays."

"What if you haven't gone anywhere and you don't need any gas?" John asks.

McKay looks thoughtful, but doesn't hesitate in answering. "Well, I'd need enough gas to replace what it took for me to drive home from here."

"But you'd have to go home from here again, so you wouldn't be any better off," John points out.

Glaring at him, McKay says, "That's not the point."

"So what's the point?" Yeah, John is definitely enjoying this.

"The point is that I -- oh, for God's sake, why am I wasting my breath arguing with a neanderthal pretty boy from the big city?" McKay throws up his hands in despair and John grins even more widely.

"Why do you assume I'm from the big city?" John leans his chair back against the wall and waits for McKay's answer.

"Please," McKay says, then lowers his voice. "I'm a genius. You think I don't know who you are?"

That takes all the wind out of John's sails in a millisecond; he lets the two front legs of the chair hit the rough sidewalk with a *thump* and he's not sure because he doesn't have a mirror, but he's pretty sure he's gone pale. "What?" He's been so convinced that he'd just be some random, unknown guy in Maine that it's kind of a shock to find out that he's wrong.

Before McKay can answer, Woolsey reappears and says, "There you go, Doc -- all set. Was hoping you'd be willing to give Mr. Sheppard here a ride home, assuming you're headed in that direction." It's said politely.

"How do you know I don't have errands to run?" McKay sighs and jerks his head toward the SUV. "Fine, whatever. Come on."

John isn't interested in walking all the way back to the house, so he just nods and goes along with it. Besides, it's McKay's fault he has to deal with this mess anyway. McKay owes him. As long as he doesn't bring up the writer thing.

So of course the first thing out of McKay's mouth once they've pulled out onto the road is, "Writer's block, hm?"

Strangely, there's something about the way he says it that is less upsetting than the way everyone else does. Usually, people say it like they want to pat his shoulder and follow it with, "There, there." Like he's deserving of pity, which is ridiculous. He's going to be fucking _rich_. Richer, of course, if he can manage to write this stupid sequel, but even without it he'll be set for the rest of his life, considering he doesn't have expensive tastes anyway.

He finds himself saying, "Yeah. It's a bitch."

"And you've tried all the standard ways to shake yourself out of it?" Jesus, is McKay offering him _advice_? John gives him a sideways look and McKay explains, "Hey, I had to write research papers at university. Been there, done that."

"All the standard ways and then some. It's why I came here. You know -- peace, quiet..." John refrains from bashing his head against the dashboard, tempting though it is.

"I know," McKay says, and his hands tighten on the steering wheel. His shoulders are tense, too, enough to make John wonder what's going on with him, other than being a jerk, which is obvious. "Maybe you should get really drunk."

John snickers. "Yeah, I tried that, too."

"No luck?"

"Not unless you count spending three hours vomiting a check in the creativity column," John says, and they exchange an uncertain grin.

"I suppose not."

Rodney goes quiet then, and doesn't say anything all the rest of the way back to his house. That suits John just fine, of course, although he admits to himself that it's annoying that McKay pulls into his own driveway, leaving John to walk around from one driveway to the other. He notices, as he's shutting the passenger door of the SUV, that there's a carefully shoveled path from the far end of the driveway along the side of the garage and, presumably, into the back yard.

He shrugs -- maybe McKay likes to feed the birds or something.

"Don't thank me for the ride!" McKay calls to him when he's halfway back along the street between the two houses.

"I won't," John mutters, and takes pleasure in shutting the front door with a slam even though he knows McKay won't be able to hear it.

  


~ * ~ * ~

  
That night, when he's getting ready for bed after another frustrating afternoon of less than a few hundred words, John glances out the window that faces McKay's back yard and sees the carefully shoveled path through the deep snow again. It's illuminated by a light coming from what must be a window in the back of the house -- John can't see it, but it has to be there because there's no other explanation for the line of light falling across the snow. The window must be low to the ground, though. Maybe it's in the basement.

He's already ventured down to the basement in this rented house, and learned that Maine has all kinds of surprises he hadn't counted on, like a dirt floor in the cellar, which brings to mind movies like Evil Dead and, frankly, kind of creeps him out. He's glad the section of the basement he'll have to use most often, the laundry room, is at the foot of the stairs and has a poured concrete floor. Maybe McKay's laundry is in the basement, too.

  


~ * ~ * ~

  
To say that John is shocked the next afternoon when McKay shows up on his front porch would be an understatement.

"Hi," McKay says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he's vastly uncomfortable. "It's, um, come to my attention that I may have been rude to you."

" _May_ have been?" John says, amused.

McKay lifts his eyes, and they're surprisingly vulnerable, like they were that time in the parking lot, wide and shining and worried. "Hey, I'm trying to apologize here."

"Okay," John says gently. "Go ahead."

"So I thought I'd try to, you know, make amends. See if you needed anything. From the grocery store? Or somewhere else. In town, I mean."

What John needs is something to break through this writer's block, and somehow he doesn't think he's going to find that in town. But it's lunch time and he's hungry, and staring at these same walls is already starting to drive him a little bit crazy. "Take me to lunch," he blurts out.

" _What?_ "

"Come on, McKay -- you offered."

"My name is Rodney," McKay says. "And I offered to get you some groceries, not take you out on a date."

John grins. "What, you don't date?"

Rodney ducks his head and mumbles something John can't quite make out.

"Sorry, what?" John says.

Rodney's head snaps up -- his eyes are blazing with something that might be shame. "I said, not in _this_ town."

Touched on a nerve there, John thinks. "Hey, come in, okay? It's cold." He hadn't really realized it until right then, but Rodney isn't wearing a jacket. "Come on. Please?"

After another moment's hesitation, Rodney nods shortly and steps inside far enough that John can close the door behind him.

"You want some coffee?"

"Oh, God, you have coffee? _Real_ coffee, not that horrible stuff from Beckett's?"

John laughs. "Yes, real coffee. I'm a pretty boy from the big city, remember? We like our coffee."

They go into the kitchen, and John tips the last few inches from the morning's pot into the sink and starts a fresh one as Rodney sits at the table and looks around curiously. "I've never been in here. It's kind of -- I don't know, seventies?" He says it warily, like he's afraid of offending John.

"Don't look at me; I didn't decorate it," John says.

Rodney smiles tentatively. "I'm... not exactly friendly with Caldwell."

"No? He seemed like a nice enough guy, from what I could tell. I mean, a little formal."

"Alpha," Rodney says, and shrugs when John gives him a look. "You know -- he wants to be in charge of everyone all the time."

"I guess." The coffee pot doing its thing without him now, John goes over and sits at the other side of the small table across from Rodney. "So you don't date here?"

Rodney shrugs again, looking more uncomfortable. "It's a small town. People talk. Everyone's in each other's back pockets, and I don't -- it's hard enough for me, without adding a whole extra reason for people to hate me."

"I'm sure they don't hate you," John says. "Jennifer seems to like you."

Waving this away with a hand, Rodney rolls his eyes. "She's my doctor."

"I don't think that means she has to like you," John points out.

"Maybe not, but she knows me. She knows --" Looking even more uncomfortable, Rodney veers the conversation away like a bull trying to change direction in a china shop, lumbering and awkward. "You date men?"

"Sometimes," John says. "If I like them. Some women, too."

Rodney eyes him with poorly disguised longing, but there's something a little bit twitchy about him, too. His fingers tap on the table edge. "I'm sure you could have anyone you want."

That sure doesn't sound like Rodney isn't interested. And John, strangely enough, is. Rodney isn't really his type -- they're probably around the same age, and John usually goes for younger guys, and usually the ones that pursue him like crazy. Rodney is different, and John isn't sure that's a bad thing. "Well, if you don't want to go out with me -- and I get that, I do --" He raises a hand to forestall any argument. "Then have lunch with me here. Despite assumptions about bachelors with non-existent kitchens, I can actually cook, but we could just have a couple of sandwiches."

Rodney stands up so fast his chair almost falls over. It's so unexpected that for a few seconds all John can do is gape at him as Rodney stammers, "Um -- I just remembered -- I have this thing --"

"What? Hey, come on, don't --" But John is already following Rodney to the front door and watching as Rodney wrenches it open and goes out into the driveway. "Hey!" he calls helplessly. "What?"

But Rodney doesn't answer.

  


~ * ~ * ~

  
The next day, John keeps a careful eye on Rodney's house, but there's nothing to tell him what might be going on over there, or what the deal is. It's like a mystery, and he's discovering that mysteries are a hell of a lot more interesting than he'd previously thought.

When he sees Jennifer Keller get home and open her trunk revealing a number of grocery bags, he gets an idea. Quickly, he goes over to help her.

"Hi!" she says brightly. "Oh, you don't have to -- um, thanks."

"No problem," John says. "I've been going kind of stir crazy, stuck in the house."

"Oh, right, your car. Richard said the glass was coming in tomorrow, didn't he?"

John doesn't bother to ask how she knows, because it's obvious that Rodney wasn't exaggerating when he said everyone was living in each other's back pockets. "Yeah. Listen -- can I ask you something?" He juggles his bags and takes one of the ones she's holding so she can get the door, which, he notes, isn't locked even though she's just getting home from a long day at work.

He realizes that was the wrong way to phrase it when she turns hopeful eyes on him. "Sure!"

"About Rodney. McKay."

Jennifer sighs. "What did he do now?"

John follows her into the kitchen and sets the bags down on the table. "Nothing. I mean, sure, he's kind of a jerk, but that's not it. I just -- what's wrong with him?"

"You mean medically? Ever heard of a thing called Doctor-Patient confidentiality."

"No, I mean -- wait, there's something medically wrong with him?" John hadn't even considered that as a possibility.

Turning from putting a quart of milk into the fridge, Jennifer says, "No, he's fine physically."

"So, what, he's mentally ill?"

"I can't talk about this with you!" Jennifer puts her hands on her hips and tries to glare at him, but fails. "Besides, I feel like I'd just be giving you ammunition to use against him."

"Hey, what kind of a guy do you think I am?" John spreads his own hands to the side, then remembers that Jennifer actually _doesn't_ know him, and that he could be the world's biggest asshole for all she knows. "Look, I don't want to know so I can hurt him. I _like_ him." That's about as much as he can manage without a gun pointed at his head.

"Oh." It doesn't seem like that possibility ever occurred to Jennifer. "Huh. You know, I don't think anyone's ever said that to me before." She stands there with a box of crackers in her hands, blinking, then shakes her head and moves to sit at the table, gesturing to John to sit in the other chair. Absently, she opens the box of crackers, eats one, and tilts the box in his direction. He takes a cracker to be polite even though he doesn't want one, and waits. "The thing is," Jennifer starts hesitantly.

"I promise I won't let slip you told me," John says, since he's pretty sure that's what's holding her back.

"Rodney's agoraphobic," Jennifer says, flushing.

"He's scared of spiders?" John asks.

Jennifer frowns at him. "That's _arachnaphobic_ ," she says, and John winces in embarrassment at having made such a stupid mistake. "No, he just... doesn't do well with people. And public places. And elevators, things like that."

Being told that Rodney doesn't do well with people isn't the revelation John had been expecting, but at least it might explain his aborted freak-out in the parking lot of the supermarket and his sudden departure from John's kitchen the day before. "He was a little weird at my house yesterday," he says slowly.

"He was -- wait, he was in your house??" Jennifer is staring at John, eyes wide.

"I take it that's unusual?"

"There are four places Rodney McKay goes," Jennifer tells him, ticking them off on her fingers as she lists them. "The gas station, the grocery store, my office, and his house. That's it. And he has to force himself to do the first three. So yes, the fact that he voluntarily entered your house is unusual. I mean, I assume it was voluntary."

"No one was holding a gun to his head," John says dryly, and Jennifer looks at him, her gaze thoughtful. "What?"

"Nothing," Jennifer says, turning to put away more groceries. "Just -- I don't know, John Sheppard. Maybe you're just what Rodney McKay needs."

  


~ * ~ * ~

  
John watches Rodney's house that evening more carefully than he has so far, and he sees things that surprise him. For one, it's neighborhood kids keeping the path from driveway around to the back of Rodney's house shoveled clear -- he watches, peering around the edge of the window shade, as two of them clean the edges of the path with small snow shovels. And even weirder -- because you'd think with the reputation Rodney has the kids would want to stay as far away from him as possible -- they disappear back around the corner of the house and don't reappear.

Since John finds it doubtful that they're continuing on with the path for the quarter mile behind the house, they've got to be doing something in the back yard. But it's cold as hell out, even for kids who've grown up in Maine, and what would they be doing back there, anyway, that wouldn't get noticed by Rodney?

Maybe Rodney pays them to do chores, he reasons. Shovel, clean gutters... stuff like that. Though Rodney doesn't seem like the type who'd be willing to pay anyone for a less than perfect job, and kids aren't likely to produce perfect...

It's a mystery.

That night, lying in bed staring at the ceiling, John formulates a plan.

~ * ~ * ~

  
"Hi," he says the next morning around ten, standing at Rodney's front door.

Rodney's hair is mussed, and he's wearing a ratty blue bathrobe that he's probably had for many years. He blinks at John like he just woke up. "Um... hi. Is it -- that is, did we have plans that I'm forgetting about?"

"No, but we have plans you didn't know about," John says. "Yet. You're coming to have lunch at my house."

"I am?" Rodney looks adorable when he's befuddled; until now, John didn't even realize that adorable was something he liked. He always assumed he preferred "hot" or "good sense of humor," or maybe it was just that a good sense of humor was something he was supposed to like. Not that he _didn't_ like it, of course, because only an idiot wouldn't appreciate someone with a decent sense of humor -- it was just there were times when it could be hard to figure out if you actually liked something or if you just had it in your head that _everyone_ did.

John wrenches his recalcitrant brain back on track, wishing it were that easy to force himself to write, and nods. "You are. At noon, okay?"

"Okay." Rodney still looks incredibly confused. "I'm allergic to citrus."

"That's okay," John tells him. "I wasn't planning to serve orange juice or lemon meringue pie."

Rodney shows up exactly on time, and when John opens the door shoves a piece of paper into John's hand. "Here. My mother taught me that you should always bring something when someone invites you over for lunch. Well actually I think she was talking about dinner, but I figure the same thing applies regardless of which meal it is, so... here."

John looks down at the paper. "Write or die?"

"It's supposed to help with writer's block," Rodney says. "Could I come in before I freeze to death? Unlike some people, I actually value my extremities."

"I'm pretty sure everyone values their extremities." John steps back and lets Rodney in. "Take your shoes off if you want to," he adds, too late because Rodney is already kicking off his boots and wriggling his toes, which are clad in thick, cream-colored socks.

"Yes, well, it's not exactly flower season here in the vast winter wilderness," Rodney says. "Besides, I didn't know if you'd want flowers."

"Not really a flowers kind of guy," John agrees. "This is better. Thanks."

"So you still need it, then? I mean, are we allowed to talk about your writer's block, or are we supposed to pretend it isn't happening?" Rodney follows John into the kitchen, where there's a heavily salted frying pan waiting on the stove for the thick burger patties John coaxed into shape half an hour ago.

He shrugs and turns on the burner. "I don't know. I guess I've been trying to pretend it wasn't happening for a while, and it's not like that made it go away. But it's not like there's much to say about it. I sit down and stare at the page and hope for inspiration, or, barring that, for a few hundred shitty words to gradually appear on the screen. Most of the time I don't get either."

"I read your book," Rodney protests. "The first one. What?"

John has dropped his head down into his hands. He's been praying -- okay, not really, because he's not a praying kind of guy any more than he's a flowers kind of guy, but if he was he _would_ have been praying -- that Rodney might be one of the few hundred people left in North America who still hadn't read  The Siege. And then that he'd be able to convince Rodney _never_ to read it. "I didn't want you to read it," he mumbles.

"That was months ago!" Rodney says, and when John looks up again, Rodney is looking into the opened refrigerator. "I was curious to see what all the fuss was about, and are we having burgers?" He sounds pleased, not upset, so he must not be a vegetarian.

"Yeah," John says. His stomach feels like it's got a boulder, or at least a really large rock, sitting in it. "So what did you think?"

"Of burgers?" Rodney frowns. "Oh, of the book! Well, hm. I liked it." That makes John feel better. "But to be perfectly honest, I don't read fiction very often, so I wouldn't consider my opinion on the matter to be worth much. I'm curious to see what happens next, of course."

"So am I," John says, and as far as he's concerned, that's enough discussion on the topic. "Do tomatoes count as citrus? I have this salad..."

Ten minutes later, they're sitting down at the table with their burgers and the tomato-mozzarella salad that's one of the few things John can make. He doesn't even consider that to be cooking -- it's really just slicing tomatoes and cheese -- but it tastes good when you can get good tomatoes, which apparently is possible even in the dead of winter in Maine as long as you're willing to pay for them.

"If you got these from Beckett's, they're grown at Dex Greenhouses," Rodney says. "He's this huge guy -- no, seriously, he's got to be six and a half feet tall, with shoulders like this --" Rodney gestures to the full width of his reach, "-- and long hair. He looks like he should be running around in the jungle or something. Well, except for the glasses."

"And he grows tomatoes?" For some reason, John finds the idea amusing.

"Not just tomatoes -- he grows lots of things. Zuchinni, avocados, green beans. It's like a bizarre Garden of Eden or something." Rodney takes a huge bite of his burger and chews with obvious relish. "God, this is good."

"It is, isn't it?" They eat in silence for a little while, John occasionally sneaking looks at Rodney, whose solid shoulders are appealing. Finally, though, he asks the question that's been bugging him. "So what's with the kids?"

Rodney looks up, startled. "What?"

"With the shovels," John says, imitating shoveling with his fork.

"Shovels?"

"I am speaking English, right?" John leans forward a little bit, studying Rodney's face more out of a sense of curiosity than suspicion even though it's clear something's going on. "The kids who are keeping the path to the back of your house shoveled."

"Oh! Those kids." Rodney is doing his best to look like he's just realized what John is talking about, but he's about the worst liar John has ever seen. "I wasn't sure which kids you were talking about."

"Are there more?" John asks.

Rodney shakes his head. "No. Just -- how many did you see?"

"I don't know -- a couple." John pretends like he's thinking about it, trying to remember. "Three?"

"Right, three." Rodney seems to relax, and takes advantage of the pause to stab a slice of mozzarella and shove it into his mouth. "Nothing." It comes out muffled around the mouthful of cheese.

"They just like doing favors for people?" John grins and shifts his legs under the table until his knee bumps Rodney's. "Come on, you can tell me."

"They're just neighborhood kids," Rodney protests, then sighs, shoulders slumping. "Okay, fine. But you can't tell anyone, and when I say anyone, I mean _anyone_ , not just people who live here. Because when stuff like this gets out, it never goes well. So tell me I can trust you."

And John, touched at Rodney's show of openness, nods and presses his knee to Rodney's thigh. "Hey, you can trust me. You can."

Rodney sighs again and sets down his fork, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, but you have to come see for yourself. There's only so much good that explaining can do."

John puts on his boots and coat and follows Rodney out into the street, then into Rodney's driveway and back around the side of the garage, walking in the carefully shoveled path with snow piled high on both sides. It's overcast, the sky gray, no hint of sun, and it gives the world a weird quality, like they've stepped through some mystical gateway into another universe.

"Careful -- it's slippery," Rodney says as they turn the corner, passing half a dozen shovels leaning against the wall and starting down half a dozen steps that lead to Rodney's back door. "I tell them to put down the ice melt, but they're always so impatient."

John is spellbound now, waiting for the big secret to be revealed.

He doesn't know what he expected, but it certainly isn't what he sees when he goes into Rodney's basement. The room they enter has benches on either side, and a collection of hooks on the wall; there's a scarf hanging off one of the hooks that looks limp and sad, like it's been there a long time, and the room is quiet. All John can hear is the gentle hum of Rodney's boiler.

"There's no one here," he says.

"Well, no, of course not, they're minors. They do have to attend school." Rodney points through the doorway in front of them and John steps through it and into a fully stocked science lab, complete with sinks, chemistry sets, and even what look like some portable gas burners. There are half-finished projects everywhere he turns, words and figures scribbled onto white boards in childish handwriting.

"Rodney, what _is_ this?" John asks.

Rodney rolls his eyes. "Well, it's a lab, of course, what does it look like?"

"But it's not your lab." John says the words slowly, testing them out. The countertops are too low to be comfortable for adults. There's a row of computers along the right hand wall -- beyond that is a staircase leading up that must go to the main floor.

"It's in my house," Rodney points out. "I'm pretty sure that makes it mine."

"Yeah, but you don't work here." Turning his attention to Rodney, John frowns slightly. "The kids?"

"No, the collection of Oompa Loompas I have locked away in secret cells," Rodney says with exasperation. "Of course the kids. Do you realize how deficient the science programs are in small towns like this? I owe it to the world to make sure my skills are passed on to the next generation, and it's not as if I'm going to have any biological children of my own."

"Because you're gay."

"No, because I'd be a shitty parent." Rodney says it without the slightest hint of doubt.

John discovers that his hands are on his hips. "You've made an entire science lab in your basement for kids that aren't related to you in any way, and you think you wouldn't be a good parent?"

"Key words being 'in my basement'," Rodney says. "That way I don't have to interact with them."

"You just let them do whatever they want down here with no supervision." John doesn't believe it, and the way Rodney flushes confirms his suspicions.

"Well, no, because I'm not an idiot. I keep tabs on what they're up to, of course."

John wanders over to the nearest computer and touches the keyboard -- the screen brightens immediately. "What _are_ they up to?"

"Oh, a variety of things. Ben is working on a computer simulation of a suspension bridge. Gina's working her way through a chemistry book she borrowed from her older sister, who's almost certain to flunk high school if she keeps on the way she's been going."

"So why all the secrecy?" John gestures toward the back door.

"Because their parents would flip if they knew they were spending time here," Rodney says. "In case you weren't aware, no one in this town likes me very much, and I doubt them knowing would improve things. We have a deal -- the kids keep the lab a secret, and I supply them with whatever they need. I do contract work for some private companies -- mostly top secret projects -- and as you can imagine the pay is astronomical. So I order whatever the kids want. Within reason, of course."

"Of course." John grins, because this is all so great. It's like Rodney's some kind of super hero, Captain Science, and the neighborhood kids are his sidekicks. "So where's your lab?"

Rodney blinks and grins back at him, a little uncertainly. "Upstairs. Do you want to see?"

"Yeah," John says, and tries not to stare too avidly at Rodney's ass as he follows him up the staircase.

  


~ * ~ * ~

  
Rodney's own lab, when they finally get there -- Rodney actually has to unlock and relock the basement door so they can get into the rest of the house -- "Seriously, I want these kids to reach their full potential, but that doesn't mean I trust them with _everything_ I own" --  
is mostly computers, and a few other machines that John is pretty sure aren't actually computers even though he doesn't know what else they could be. He isn't asking questions, though, because he's got Rodney pressed up against the wall and is kissing him with one hand on Rodney's jaw and the other at his waist.

"You're really good at this," Rodney gasps, pulling away to stare at him in awe. "How did you -- oh God, you've slept with a thousand men, haven't you. Which would explain your talent but means you're probably riddled with sexually transmitted diseases."

John should be offended, but instead he finds himself laughing. "Not a thousand," he says reassuringly. "Maybe a few dozen. But I'm careful -- no diseases, I promise."

"Isn't that what promiscuous people always say?" Rodney's eyes are on John's lips, though, and he leans in and kisses him again like he can't help himself. "It shouldn't be legal for someone to be this good a kisser."

"I don't think I am," John says. At least, no one else has ever made a big deal about it. "Maybe it's you." Rodney's mouth tastes a little bit sweet, and his tongue is strong when it slips over John's -- must be all the talking Rodney does. "Maybe you make me a good kisser."

"Mm. I realize this might sound hypocritical coming from me, but do you think we could shut up and focus on what's really important here?"

They spend a good twenty minutes making out against the wall, which makes John feel like he's fifteen again and just discovering sex for the first time. Idly, while Rodney's wide hands rub his ass, John wonders how far away Rodney's bedroom is, and whether it would be rushing things to suggest they go there. And then Rodney pushes at his hip, and Rodney's palm settles over John's dick, and most thought flees in favor of an orgasm he's hovering on the edge of.

"Tell me what you like," Rodney murmurs, teeth nipping at John's lower lip briefly before moving to his ear lobe.

"This -- God, this is good." It's not enough, of course, because what John really wants is for there to be nothing keeping their skin from touching. He wants Rodney's quick fingers wrapped around his bare cock, wants to feel the solid curve of Rodney's knuckles rubbing against the pre-come-slick tip, pulling his release out of him. It's going to be so fucking good, he just knows it -- it's like the night he finished The Siege and knew, just _knew_ deep down, that it was going to be successful. "Can -- do you think --"

Without him having to say anything else, Rodney kneels down in front of him and gets the front of his pants open with an impatient jerk, and then Rodney's mouth is on him and oh, fuck, it's _perfect_. Hot and slick, the suction making his balls draw up close, and John hears himself making a strangled, desperate sound as he comes hard enough that he forgets where he is for a minute or so.

His first thought is that they should have used a condom, not because he isn't clean but because now Rodney, who is a worrier on a level John hadn't imagined possible, is going to freak out about it. It turns out he's wrong, though, because Rodney tangles their fingers together and gives a tug, and John goes down to the kneel on the floor next to him, kiss him, taste his own sharp come in Rodney's mouth, and Rodney doesn't say anything at all. There's no freak-out, just a satisfied sigh and then Rodney's hand pulling John's over to Rodney's cock.

"Please," Rodney begs, and John gets it out and pushes Rodney down onto his back and sucks him, deep and dirty, lots of tongue and saliva and more than a few eager sounds at the back of his throat so Rodney knows how much he's enjoying it. Rodney is totally silent when he comes, arching up off the floor and clutching at John's shoulder.

While they're still lying there, breathing, there's a sound from somewhere, a creak and a muffled thud.

"What was that?" John asks.

Rodney lifts his wrist like it's a chore and checks his watch. "School's out," he says, and sets about licking the inside of John's mouth clean with a focus that's both impressive and a massive turn on.

  


~ * ~ * ~

  
John wants to ask Rodney if he wants to spend the night at his place, but Rodney's already starting to get antsy five minutes after they finish having sex, so John keeps his mouth shut.

"I should go do some work," he says. It's almost five o'clock and he only wrote about a hundred words today, which is nowhere near enough. The more he thinks about it, the more it stresses him out, so he tries to think about it as little as possible, but he has a hypothetical deadline in six weeks and it's getting harder and harder to pretend everything's okay.

"Okay," Rodney says, and the lights flicker alarmingly. "Oh God, there are too many kids on the power strips again. You can show yourself out, right?"

Instead, John follows Rodney to the basement, checking to make sure his clothes are on right as he starts down the steps.

"Derek, I told you not to double up on the power strips," Rodney says as soon as he's through the doorway to the lab area.

The thin, dark-haired boy who must be Derek jumps guiltily and says, in earnest, "It wasn't me, Doctor McKay. Honest."

"All right then," Rodney says, and raises his voice. "Who plugged one power strip into another? Come on, now. You all know the rules. Heather! What are the rules?"

A girl with long hair tucked back behind her ears recites, "Rule #1: This is not Doctor McKay's lab. It's our lab, and it's our job to take care of it. Rule #2: Our lab doesn't exist. Rule #3: Follow all safety protocols, or risk being banned from the lab."

Rodney nods, seemingly pleased.

"It -- it was me, Doctor McKay. I'm sorry," Heather says. "I promise I won't do it again."

John is impressed that she doesn't offer any excuses or explanations for why she broke the rule; she goes over and shuts off the microscope she was looking into, then the power strip, before unplugging it.

"If it happens again, you'll be banned for a week," Rodney says, and Heather looks stricken, like Rodney just told her he's taking away her birthday puppy.

"It won't," Heather assures him.

"Who's he?" asks another kid, a boy with a crew cut so short he's practically bald. He has thick glasses that slide down his nose, and he pushes them back into place impatiently as he waits for an answer.

"I'm John Sheppard," John says.

"He lives next door," Rodney adds.

"No, he doesn't. Mr. Caldwell lives next door," Derek says, with all the certainty of a ten year old.

"I'm renting his house while he's away taking care of his sister. She's sick." John shrugs and grins at the kids, all of whom have drawn nearer now and are eying him with interest. There are seven or eight of them, none older than fourteen or fifteen -- not that he's all that great about guessing kids' ages.

A girl in a pink, frilly blouse looks at him suspiciously. "Why aren't you at work? Are you a stay at home dad? Where are your kids?"

"I don't have any kids, and I'm not a stay at home dad. And I'm a writer, so I don't have to work any particular hours, or go to an office or anything."

"He probably writes something boring like travel reviews," the crew cut boy says.

"No, he writes science fiction novels," Rodney says proudly. "He's actually very good, and moderately famous."

Heather tucks her hair behind her ears again and offers, "My brother has your book about space vampires. He says you're a genius."

"Nah," John says modestly. "Rodney's a genius. I just have brief moments of intelligence here and there."

"Is he your friend?" Crew Cut demands of Rodney.

Rodney looks at John thoughtfully, then nods. "Yes, Ben, he's my friend. Is there some problem with that of which I'm unaware?"

"We thought you didn't have any friends," blurts out Heather, then she blushes and looks down, muttering what might be an apology.

"Don't apologize for being truthful," Rodney tells her. "There's no shame in that. Sure, some people will think you're rude or immature, but there are times when honesty is more important than anything else. Which you proved when you admitted you were the one who broke the rule about doubling up on the power strips." Heather looks up at him, beaming, and John can see why these kids are so smitten with Rodney. He talks to them like they're adults, doesn't coddle them, and they eat it up.

Rodney goes around and introduces everyone, and then a couple of the kids take John around and show him the projects they're working on. To say that he's impressed would be a major understatement -- they seem to be a lot smarter than he was even in high school. "Wow," he keeps saying, and, "Good job."

Finally, he starts to worry that the kids are going to realize he's just repeating the same few phrases over and over again, and tells them he needs to go do some work. Rodney walks him upstairs and hesitates before kissing him goodbye.

It's starting to snow as John walks back to his house, just a few flakes here and there, and he's determined he's going to accomplish something this evening. He's not going to let himself be distracted by the TV or Google; he's going to focus, and write, and he'll be able to go to bed tonight feeling accomplished and relieved.

It's such a nice theory that he actually believes it until he realizes it's ten o'clock and he hasn't produced anything but a couple of awkward paragraphs and a jaw that aches from clenching his teeth. Fuck it, he thinks, and goes to get himself a drink.

There are two six packs of beer in the fridge, and he finishes one of them in a fit of self-pity and is just crawling into bed when he hears a knock at the front door. He's only wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts, so he checks through the window before he opens the door -- it's Rodney, looking nervous and uncertain.

"Hey," John says, aware that he's drunk and probably not at his best. "Everything okay?"

"Well, I think it's safe to say that there's never a moment in which _everything_ is okay." Rodney holds up a bottle of wine. "I was going to offer you some of this, but it seems like you started without me."

"Don't give me a hard time," John grumbles, ushering Rodney inside and shutting the door. "Writer's block sucks. I'm entitled to some beer."

"Some? I think your definition of that word is suspect." Setting the bottle of wine down on the kitchen counter, Rodney gives John a sympathetic look. "You should have some water before you go to bed or you're going to have a hangover."

"I should have some of you," John tells him, leaning in close. " _In_ my bed, and screw the hangover."

Rodney laughs. "I didn't sign on for any threesomes," he says, but kisses John slowly and thoroughly, and five minutes later they're both naked and tumbling into bed.

Pinned to the mattress by Rodney's solid weight, John rolls his hips and lifts his head to whisper in Rodney's ear. "You can fuck me if you want to." This elicits a helpless groan from Rodney, who bites John's neck in a surprisingly vampire-like move, sucking at the tender skin there until John groans, too.

"You aren't serious, are you?" Rodney asks. He's pulled back so he can search John's eyes. "Oh my God, you _are_ serious. I can really -- I mean, we can -- oh _no_." His face contorts and he shudders, and John can feel the warm slick of come between them, Rodney's cock throbbing in the crease between his thigh and groin.

He's not disappointed, John tells himself firmly, and grabs onto Rodney's ass with both hands. "That's it," he says encouragingly. "Come on, McKay." And Rodney moans and trembles, breath hot against John's throat and ear. "Thatta boy."

"I'm not," Rodney gasps, "a _dog_ , you know." He gives John a half-hearted glare that's softened too much by pleasure to be anything but amusing in its attempt. "God, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," John says. "It's cool. We have plenty of time. I mean, assuming I can convince you to spend the night." And he shoves Rodney over onto his back and slides down along his body, licking come off Rodney's stomach and dick, the taste of it sharp and faintly sweet in his mouth.

When he takes Rodney's cock between his lips, Rodney whimpers. "God, I don't -- I think you have unrealistic expectations, John. I'm in my forties now. I probably can't -- God, _yes_ , like that." This last is in response to John sucking on the spot just below the head of Rodney's dick, where all the best nerves are clustered.

Two good things about himself, only one of which John will admit to: he's patient, and he likes to suck cock. He takes his time, focusing on the act for its own sake instead of wondering if he's going to be able to get Rodney hard again. He licks Rodney's balls thoroughly, feeling the skin crinkle and tighten at his touch, and gives a few tentative licks behind them, not quite swiping over Rodney's hole but getting close enough that the tilt of Rodney's hips tells him what he wants to know. Then he concentrates all his attention on Rodney's shaft, taking him in deep, sucking hard until blood gathers into eager veins and Rodney is erect, the head of his cock wide and flushed a pink so vivid it's almost red through Rodney's pale, soft skin.

"God," Rodney mutters, the fingers of one hand tangled in John's hair and guiding him, not that he needs the guidance. "You're so good at that. The best ever."

"I'm good at other things, too," John tells him.

It doesn't take long to find a condom and some lube; John rolls the condom onto Rodney's cock quickly and efficiently, then swings a leg over and, eyes locked on Rodney's, pushes two slick fingers into his own ass.

"Oh my God. You're trying to kill me, aren't you. That's what this is all about. You're going to fuck me to death." Rodney isn't even making any sense, but he shuts up fast when John lowers onto his cock, pressing determinedly downward and feeling himself open wide, too wide. He has to stop and breathe slowly, nostrils flaring, while he adjusts to the size of Rodney, whose face is caught in a comical expression between bliss and worry. "Are you okay?" Rodney asks. "Don't --"

But that's it, good enough, and John starts to move as his body relaxes. He pulls up a little bit, then sinks down again, driving Rodney's cock in deeper, and it goes from 'good enough' to 'fucking perfect' in a rapid heartbeat. John whimpers and freezes, so shocked by the enormity of the pleasure that he can't move. "Fuck," he whispers, arms trembling. "Fuck. Rodney, fuck me."

And Rodney, who is clearly every bit the genius he claims to be, does. He clamps his hands on John's hips and fucks up into him, fast and hard and relentless, his dick bumping over John's sensitive prostate with every stroke. It's all John can do to brace himself and take it, and even that doesn't last long before he spasms, moans, and comes all over Rodney's chest in long, slick pulses. Rodney fucks him right through it, the self-control he'd been lacking earlier solid now, and doesn't stop moving until John collapses down onto his chest.

"Here," Rodney mutters. "Just let me..." He slides his dick out of John's ass, rolls John over onto his side, and gets up close behind him before entering him again, one hand splayed wide across John's belly. "Is this okay?" Rodney murmurs in his ear, and John can only nod his assent and lie there.

Rodney takes it slow, to the point where, by the time he's close to coming, John's cock is starting to think about the possibility of a second round. But then Rodney speeds up, his dick driving into John in short little jabs, and John _feels_ it when Rodney comes, ass stretching almost painfully with each throb of Rodney's cock. Rodney's chest heaves for air, sweaty where it's pressed up against John's back.

"You okay there?" John asks finally, and Rodney snorts and reaches to hold onto the condom before pulling out, which makes them both wince.

"Fine," Rodney says. "Better than fine. Great. How about you?"

"I'm good." John turns around, squirming in Rodney's embrace, and stops when their noses are touching. "You have no idea how much I needed that."

"More than you needed all that beer," Rodney says bluntly. "Go brush your teeth -- your breath smells like hops."

John gapes at him for a few seconds -- way to kill the afterglow, McKay -- and then gives in and laughs, because what the hell else is he going to do?

Frowning, Rodney pushes at him, and John rolls over onto his back again, just going with it. "So I've been thinking," Rodney says, like this is John's cue to listen up. "About your writer's block."

"Yeah? What about it?" John thinks he knows what's coming next -- some idiotic suggestion, as if one little idea is all it takes to break through a block John can't see over.

"Well, what if the Wraith kidnap one of Joe's team members?" Rodney is lying on his back, too, looking up at Caldwell's popcorn ceiling.

"And?" There has to be more to it than that.

"And gets him addicted to that stuff, of course," Rodney says, snapping his fingers to jar his memory. "The enzyme. Wouldn't that turn things around?"

John blinks. Post-orgasm, it's always a little hard to get his brain to come back online. But then, as it does, and the impact of Rodney's words sink in, he sits straight upright, eyes widening and his thoughts racing a mile a minute.

"What?" Rodney says, as John's out of bed like a shot, not even bothering with clothes as he leaves the bedroom in favor of the office where the laptop is.

"You really _are_ a genius," John says, backtracking to the bed. He takes Rodney's face between his hands and kisses him, hard and fast.

"Well, of course I am," Rodney mutters, mollified, and doesn't complain when John leaves the room.

A few minutes later, though, when John is typing furiously, the rest of the sequel stretched out in front of him in a road as far as his mind's eye can see, Rodney appears in the office doorway. He's dressed again.

"Thanks," John manages. He knows he owes Rodney more, but he can't give it right then. Everything is focused on getting the words down while they're so perfectly formed.

"You're welcome," Rodney says. "See you tomorrow?"

"Sure."

Rodney goes away.

The next time John looks at the clock, it's after two a.m.. His knuckles ache from typing, but he cracks them and determinedly spends another ten minutes outlining the rest of what's in his head so he won't lose it. After that, he saves the file twice and sends it to his back-up email address just to be on the safe side, and staggers off to bed, where he sleeps so heavily that he doesn't wake up until almost noon the next day.

There's a message on his voice mail from the garage, saying that his car is ready whenever he wants to pick it up, and then a message from Rodney, who says, "Hi. I was just -- um, calling to say hi. So... call me. Or, you know, come over. Whatever you want. Or don't, if you don't want. I don't -- it's been a long time since I did this. Okay, it's been _forever_ , and... right. Okay. Talk to you later. I hope. Bye."

Grinning, John takes a quick, very hot shower, ignoring the twinges as his ass protests last night's activity. He gets dressed, puts on his boots and jacket, and goes over to Rodney's. When Rodney opens the door, John is leaning against the side of the house. "Hey. How's it going?"

"Okay. Did you -- um, get my message?"

"Yeah," John says. "Look, I'm sorry about last night." Rodney's face falls, and John hastens to add, "Not about, you know, the sex! That was fantastic. I meant about bailing on you to write."

"Oh, that." Rodney waves away the apology. "Don't worry about it. I know what it's like to have to run with something while you can."

John nods, grateful that Rodney understands. "Anyway, my car's fixed -- think you could give me a ride down to the garage?"

Rodney smiles, but looks uncertain. "It's not my day."

"Yeah, but you could make an exception, right? Just this once?" John had forgotten that Rodney has this whole not-leaving-the-house thing going on, but he can't be _that_ rigid about it, can he?

"If I could make exceptions, I wouldn't have a schedule," Rodney says. His eyes look into John's, pleading for him to understand. But John doesn't understand, not really.

"Come on. Please?" John reaches out and touches Rodney's arm, and Rodney sighs and relents.

"Fine. But if something goes horribly wrong, I want you to remember that this was your idea."

At Woolsey's Garage, Rodney waits in the SUV to make sure John's all set, and John waits as a huge guy -- easily six inches taller than him -- finishes up a conversation with Richard Woolsey about snow tires that he's ordered.

"Monday at the latest," Woolsey says. "I promise."

"Yeah, okay," the big guy says, turning toward John and offering him a rueful grin. "Perils of living in a small town, I guess. Hey, you're new. Ronon Dex -- I teach science at the school."

They shake hands, and John says, "The school? You say it like there's only one."

"Small town," Ronon says again. "Don't need more than one school. Or one science teacher."

"Damned good science teacher," Woolsey says. "My kids are both going to the state science fair in Orono in a couple of weeks."

Ronon grins, looking proud. "As much as I'd like to take credit for that, they must have natural talent, because they're already a couple of years ahead of what we've covered in class. Sometimes I think it must be something in the water."

Or something in Rodney's basement, John thinks. "So, my car's ready?"

"Oh, right! It's parked right around the side of the building here. Doctor McKay says I should send the bill to him?" Woolsey is pushing some paperwork across the counter toward John.

"Who am I to argue when someone wants to pay my bills?" John asks, grinning as he scrawls his signature at the bottom of the page. That's when he hears shouting coming from outside. When he turns to look, he sees Rodney backed up against the side of his SUV and some guy shoving Rodney, both hands at Rodney's shoulders. As John watches, the man shoves Rodney again, and Rodney doesn't do anything to protect himself.

John is moving across the space between them, passing between the gas pumps. "Hey!" he says loudly, and there must be a hell of an expression on his face because the other man backs off in a hurry. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Ask this bastard," the man says, jaw jutting forward as he gestures at Rodney. "Ask him what he's been doing with my daughter!"

"Nothing," Rodney mutters. His head is down, and John can see the thinning hair along the center of his scalp. "I haven't done anything."

"Then explain why she's been going over to your house after school!"

"Look, just calm down and I'm sure we can get to the bottom of this," John says.

"Calm down? You've got to be kidding me!" The guy is tall and thin, almost bony, but if the way Rodney is cowering against the SUV means anything he's stronger than he looks. "My daughter has been going over to this asshole's house every afternoon for _weeks_. What the hell do you think someone like this gets up to? He's a fucking _pervert_."

John tries to think of a solution to this, but it's beyond him. Right then, all he really wants to do is get this guy away from Rodney, who is clearly freaking out. "Hey, cool it. I get that you're pissed off, but this isn't the time or the place. Trust me when I say that McKay hasn't done anything inappropriate with your kid, okay?"

"Why should I trust you?" The man gives him a haughty look that falters a few seconds later and turns into vague recognition. It's a look John has seen develop on dozens of strangers' faces, and he silently curses having agreed to the TV interviews he did even while he's thinking that maybe this time there'll be a benefit to it. "Hey, you're that guy!"

"Yeah," he says wearily, and offers his hand. "John Sheppard."

"You wrote that book! Man, my son was obsessed with that book for months, and he can't wait for the movie to come out. Do you think I could get your autograph?"

"Sure," John says, then, to Rodney, "Get in the car."

Rodney obeys, though it looks like an effort, and John quickly signs an autograph for the guy's teenaged son -- "Kavanaugh, his name is Craig Kavanaugh," the guy says eagerly, and when asked scribbles down his own name and phone number. John assures him that he'll call him later that evening and explain everything, and Kavanaugh is starry-eyed enough at the wonder of having met a real live celebrity that he seems willing to agree to that.

John turns his attention to Rodney, who is sitting behind the wheel of the SUV with his hands over his face, rocking back and forth.

"Hey, buddy," John says gently, having settled into the passenger seat and shut the door. "You okay?"

"No, of course I'm not _okay_ ," Rodney says, sounding strangled. "I'm having a fucking _panic attack_ , what the hell do you think is okay about that? There's nothing okay about this, and it's _all your fault_. You were the one who made me come out when it wasn't my day; it wasn't my day and now _everything's fucked_."

"Easy. Just... tell me what I can do." John's at a loss. He's never had to deal with someone like this before, and, to his surprise, he's finding that he _wants_ to deal with it.

"Don't touch me," Rodney says, glancing at him. "I -- I can't do that. Could -- I need to go home. Can you drive?"

"Yeah, sure."

They switch seats and John drives, staying a careful five miles per hour below the speed limit. Rodney is strangely silent the whole time, one hand clenched on the door handle and the other on his knee. His knuckles are white. John has to force himself to watch the road instead of Rodney's face, which is pale and blank as he stares down at his feet, or in the general direction of his feet since the glove compartment must be blocking his view.

John has barely put the SUV in park before Rodney is out of it like a shot, beating a swift path up the steps and through the front door. "Come on," Rodney says, gesturing impatiently at John, who follows and moves out of the way in alarm when Rodney slams the door shut and bolts it, then sinks down onto the floor.

Even more alarmed, John kneels next to him, reaching out to take hold of Rodney's shoulders before he remembers the no-touching rule. "Rodney? What -- what do you need?" He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, a rapid slam-slam against his rib cage -- he hates not knowing what to do. He hates knowing that Rodney is hurting and that it doesn't seem like there's anything he can do to make it better.

"Phone," Rodney gasps, shuddering, and John grabs it and presses it into Rodney's grip.

Rodney pushes one button and waits. His hand is shaking so much that John's surprised he can keep hold of the thing.

"Hello? Rodney?" It's a faint female voice, but when Rodney opens his mouth, nothing comes out. He gives John a desperate look and John takes the phone.

"It's John Sheppard."

"John. Is he having a panic attack?" Jennifer Keller, sounding concerned. "Did he take his pill?"

"I don't think so," John says. "No. Rodney, where are your pills?"

Rodney doesn't seem capable of talking anymore -- he's breathing like a dying man, and John is starting to lose it.

"Doc, I think we need an ambulance or something. He can't breathe."

Jennifer Keller has a fantastic bedside -- phoneside -- manner. "It's okay. He's going to be fine. If he hyperventilates too much, he might lose consciousness, so try to get him sitting down on the floor. Can you do that, John?"

"He already is," John tells her.

"Good, that's good. Remind him to breathe slowly."

But it's too late -- Rodney's eyes are rolling up into his head, and he starts to pitch sideways. John drops the phone in his haste to keep Rodney's head from hitting the tile floor. When he has Rodney lying flat, he picks up the phone again. "He's out. What do I do now?"

"Okay, that's fine," Jennifer says. "Are _you_ okay?"

"What? Yeah. Um, no, not really. I'm kind of out of my element here." John hates to admit it, but he's freaked out enough that it slips out.

"You're doing fine. I'm on my way now -- I should be there in a few minutes. Just stay with him, and if he regains consciousness, try to keep him calm."

"Does he do this a lot?" John asks.

"Faint during a panic attack? Sometimes. It's actually very uncommon for people with anxiety disorders to lose consciousness during an attack; a panic attack drives the blood pressure up, and fainting is usually a result of blood pressure dropping. But Rodney has a tendency to hyperventilate when he's panicking, and that's what seems to trigger it for him. Anyway, just sit with him and I'll be there soon."

It seems rude or needy (or maybe both) to beg Jennifer not to hang up, so John says, "Okay," and sets the phone down on the floor beside him. Then, because it's too quiet and disturbing sitting here with an unconscious -- but breathing, John can see Rodney's chest rising and falling steadily -- man, John starts talking out loud. "Um... hey. You can wake up anytime, you know. That'd be cool."

Rodney doesn't respond.

John discovers that if he squints a little, he can pretend Rodney is just sleeping. Because that's what normal people do: sleep on a hard tile floor just inside the entrance of their house, when they have a perfectly good bed a dozen yards away. "Not like you're normal," John says casually. "I mean, don't get me wrong -- that's not an insult or anything. It's not like _I'm_ normal. Maybe I was once, but I'm pretty sure those days were over right around the time I got my first royalty check. It all happened so fast, you know? I wasn't ready for it. When I started looking on Craigslist for a place to rent, I guess I thought I could run away from it all, but now... now I know better. I guess I'm stuck with me." He smiles faintly.

"Yeah, and I'm here," Rodney mumbles, cracking his eyes open, and John jumps.

"Jesus, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" He recovers fast, though. "Dr. Keller is on her way. Just take it easy, okay?"

"Did I pass out?"

John nods. "Yeah. She said something about hyperventilating and blood pressure -- I don't know, it made sense at the time. Don't try to get up or anything."

"Oh, don't worry. I have no intention of moving. God, this is so embarrassing."

"Why, because you fainted?"

Rodney glares at him. "I didn't _faint_. I passed out."

"There's a difference?" John much prefers a glaring Rodney to an unconscious one, so he doesn't feel too guilty about goading him. In fact, the only thing he's really feeling right then is relief that Rodney is awake and talking to him again.

"Yes, of course there is." Eying John suspiciously, Rodney says, "This is the end, isn't it."

"The end of what?"

"Of this. Us." Rodney gestures between the two of them. "I mean, I understand, if it is. I'm pretty screwed up. I think I'm getting better -- no, I _know_ I'm getting better -- but it's not like flipping a switch." He laughs suddenly, but it doesn't sound happy, and John reaches for his hand.

"Hey," he says gently. "It's okay. This doesn't have to be the end if you don't want it to be. I _like_ you."

"You do?" The look Rodney gives him is almost pitifully grateful. "I mean, that's good, because I like you, too. And I don't like many people, so that's actually saying something."

Outside in the driveway, a car door slams, and John stands up and unlocks the door for Jennifer Keller, who is managing to project both concern and calm at the same time.

"Oh good, you're back with us," she says when she sees Rodney. "Did he hit his head?" This is directed at John.

"Nope."

"Rodney, did you take your pill?"

Rodney shakes his head and starts to sit up, and John quickly gets back down on the floor to help him. "I left them at home."

"But -- you're _at_ home." Jennifer is clearly confused.

"I went out. With John."

"But it's Friday."

"He talked me into it," Rodney says.

"I did," John tells her. "It's my fault."

"Oh, shut up," Rodney snaps, and whacks John with the back of his hand. That's gratitude for you, John thinks. "It's not your fault. It was that idiot Kavanaugh."

"What happened?" Jennifer seems to be genuinely relaxing now, as opposed to her pretend professional relaxation.

"I take it you mean after Kavanaugh lost his mind? I don't know, it all happened very quickly, but I think he was accusing me of some sort of inappropriate interaction with his daughter." Rodney shifts his weight and starts to stand up, and John gets up with him, making sure Rodney's steady on his feet. "He's obviously insane. Heather's one of the last kids who'd let something slip --" Too late, Rodney realizes what he's saying, and he goes pale.

"One of?" Jennifer says. "Let something slip? Rodney..."

"I think you'd better take off your coat," John says, holding out a hand for it. "There's something you need to see."

  


~ * ~ * ~

  
Half an hour later, Jennifer Keller, having been given a tour of Rodney's basement lab and the opportunity to ask questions about it -- and then sworn to secrecy -- leaves to go back to work, and John and Rodney are alone in Rodney's kitchen again.

"I really am sorry about before," John says.

"Yes, yes, I'm aware that you're sorry," Rodney says. "You've already apologized multiple times. I forgive you."

From downstairs, there's the sound of the outside door slamming shut, and John checks his watch, frowning.

"No school today," Rodney says helpfully. "Some kind of teachers' conference, I don't know. Derek was going on and on about it but I wasn't really listening."

John wonders if Rodney knows he lets stuff slip all the time, little things that make up a bigger picture which proves Rodney doesn't dislike kids anywhere near as much as he insists he does. "I didn't get a chance to thank you for last night."

Rodney _blushes_. "Er... you're welcome? It isn't as if I didn't enjoy it."

"Not that," John laughs. "Although that was great, too. I meant the story idea."

"Oh! Well, glad to help. I thought it was a good suggestion, or I wouldn't have..." Rodney is off and running a mile a minute, just like nothing unusual has happened that day, no violent confrontations at the garage or fainting spells in the front hall. And John listens, finding himself hanging on every word.

  


~ * ~ * ~

  
They have sex again that night, when all the kids have gone home. They do it in Rodney's bed this time, with John flat on his belly, legs splayed wide and Rodney stroking into him slowly. John muffles his groans into Rodney's pillow and holds off on his orgasm as long as he can but finally convulses with pleasure.

"Sorry about the wet spot," he mumbles later, when Rodney is lying beside him, one hand rubbing his ass gently.

"I'll sleep over here," Rodney says. Then, "Would it be too weird if I asked you to go home? It's not that I don't want you here, it's just that I sleep better by myself, and sleep deprivation is one of my least favorite things."

John grins sleepily and leans over to kiss Rodney."No problem. I should put in a couple of hours of work anyway."

"Oh, good. And then, tomorrow, I was thinking... maybe I could take you out somewhere? For lunch. And then we could pick up your car on the way back, since that didn't work out so well today -- I assume you still have the keys, so it won't matter that Woolsey's place isn't open on Saturdays." Rodney sounds nervous, but determined.

"Okay," John says. He's pulling his clothes on now, buttoning his jeans. "Sounds great. Are you sure?"

"You mean, am I sure I want to go out on a day I usually don't leave the house?" Rodney makes a face. "I'm sure I _don't_ want to, but that probably means I should. As long as you're willing to risk it --"

"I am," John says firmly. "Definitely."

And that seems to be all the answer Rodney needs, because he breaks into a wide, open smile that prompts John to kiss him again, a little more thoroughly this time. It's harder than John anticipated to leave when Rodney walks him to the front door and, predictably, locks it behind him.

Four hours later, John finishes his writing for the night and goes through his routine of saving and shutting down his laptop. He never used to shut it down at all, but then someone mentioned that it might run faster if he shut it down at least once in a while, so he started making it a habit.

He's just getting into bed, wearing nothing but flannel sleep pants, when he hears something that makes him stop and listen more carefully. It's a high-pitched beeping sound, but he doesn't think it's coming from inside his house. Frowning, John goes over and opens the bedroom window a crack, and immediately the sound gets louder.

It's coming from Rodney's house, and it's a smoke detector.

John bolts, halfway down the driveway in his bare feet before he takes his first conscious breath. He doesn't feel the cold, but he wishes the snow weren't so deep -- it would have been a shorter path if he could have cut directly across the front lawn. He pounds on the front door with the flat of his hand, shouting Rodney's name as he fumbles for the door handle, but it's locked. Of course it's locked, it's the place where Rodney's safe, behind a locked door, and all the lights are out and Rodney is both asleep and the complete opposite of safe.

There's no hesitation on John's part; he runs around the side of the house and grabs the nearest shovel, then back to the front door where he shatters the glass beside the door with the shovel's handle. Shoving his hand through, John snaps the deadbolt and turns the handle, ignoring the flare of pain as a sliver of glass digs into his arm. That's it -- he's in. Shit, he should have called 911.

"Rodney! Damn it, McKay, wake up!" There's a phone in the kitchen, and John pauses just long enough to snatch it up, listen for the dial tone, and push 9-1-1 before he drops it onto the table again and thunders up the stairs.

There's a lot of smoke -- he's choking on it and holds his arm up to his face, trying to breathe through the fabric of his shirt, not that it helps. He doesn't see any fire, though. That's something.

John turns the corner and runs into Rodney's room, where Rodney is a vague, shadowy lump in the bed. "Rodney, get up! There's a fire!" Okay, so he doesn't actually _see_ any fire, but the smoke detector is so fucking loud that it seems impossible Rodney is sleeping through it, and oh, God, what if Rodney's dead? All this smoke...

He shakes Rodney hard, and Rodney sits up, swinging wildly. "What?! What --"

"Save it -- we need to get out of here." Somehow, John manages to get Rodney onto his feet and staggering toward the stairs, even though Rodney is coughing and disoriented and not, frankly, being all that helpful. The fresh air, icy cold, feels like a slap in the face when it hits them, and Rodney staggers down the last two steps and sits down in the snow, coughing, coughing.

"Easy," John says, between his own coughs.

"Oh my God!" Rodney gets the words out between gasps for air and forceful exhalations of same. "My house -- is on _fire_."

"I didn't see any fire," John says. "Just smoke."

"Oh, well, there's an important distinction." Pushing himself to his feet, Rodney looks at the front door. "And you broke my window!"

"Rodney, I was trying to keep you from getting _burned to death!_ " John shouts, unable to believe he's having this conversation.

" _I thought you said there was no fire!_ " Rodney sounds hysterical.

John's frustration eases when Rodney bends over coughing again, and he steps closer and puts a hand on Rodney's back. "Your -- feet are bare," Rodney manages, and John answers, "So are yours," at the same time a familiar female voice calls out to them from across the street.

"Are you hurt?" Jennifer asks, hurrying toward them. In the distance, there's the sound of sirens, and John remembers that he called 911.

"We're okay. There was a lot of smoke," he says.

"It's cold out here -- you should get inside," Jennifer says.

Rodney gives her a look that clearly suggests she's not very bright. "Are you _insane_? This is my home we're talking about here. Are those the fire trucks?"

Those _are_ the fire trucks, as it turns out, along with an ambulance that John and Rodney both climb into so the paramedic can check them out while the firefighters storm Rodney's house. One of them is back within five minutes, while John is tucking a blanket around his icy feet.

"Bad power strip in the basement," the man says. "A small fire spread up the wall, but we've got it under control. Could have been a lot worse."

"I'm going to take her apart with my bare hands," Rodney growls from behind the oxygen mask he's wearing.

"No, you're not," John says without thinking about it. It's an automatic response; it feels natural, like he's meant to be saying it, which is a weird thing to think. Maybe he'll blame it on the smoke. "She's just a kid. It was a mistake, that's all."

"But I _told_ her," Rodney says. "What's the point of having rules if people aren't going to follow them? I can't believe she didn't --" He stops, looking out the open door of the ambulance, and when John turns his head he sees a dozen people standing in a staggered half-circle, watching them. Several of them are the neighborhood kids who spend so much time in Rodney's secret basement lab. They're bundled into bathrobes or wearing jackets over their pajamas, feet shoved hastily into winter boots, the red emergency lights from the fire trucks playing across their faces.

"Is Doctor McKay all right?" Derek asks.

It's the paramedic who answers. "He'll be fine. He breathed in a little too much smoke, so now he's having some oxygen."

"You're all lucky I'm not _dead_ ," Rodney snaps. "If John hadn't come to get me, I probably would have been. _Who broke the rules_?"

"It was me," Derek says miserably. "I did it. But I'll make it up to you, I promise. I'll save up my allowance and pay for everything to be fixed. I thought, when I got home, that maybe I forgot to shut off the electric burner, but..."

"It wasn't the burner," John says, wanting to put a halt to this before it goes any further. "It was the power strip."

Heather, her face white, steps forward. "But I didn't! I was following the rules! I didn't plug the second one back in to the first one."

"There weren't two," the firefighter says. "Just the one. Sometimes they go bad."

"Oh," Rodney says. "Oh."

"What are they talking about?" The man speaking must be a parent. "Electric burners? Power strips?"

Rodney is the one who says it out loud, slowly. " _I_ broke the rules, too, just now, didn't I."

Heather and Derek, amongst others, nod solemnly.

"Well," Rodney says. He pulls the oxygen mask off and stands up. "I think John was right -- everyone makes mistakes, even me. So I guess it's time, much as I'd like to avoid it, to come clean. Okay? Is everybody with me?"

The kids all nod again, and their parents draw closer.

John reaches out and puts a hand on Rodney's shoulder as he starts to explain.

  


~ * ~ * ~

  
Rodney agrees to spend the night at John's and worry about his house in the morning. "I'll have to call the insurance company," he complains. "God, I hate them so much. And then find a handyman or something, to fix things. An electrician. I think the universe really has it in for me." He looks at John then, though, apologetically. "Well. Sometimes."

"I can deal with some of the phone calls, if that helps," John says.

"You have no idea how tempting that is, but I think it's time for me to suck it up and figure out how to live like a normal person. Not that I'll ever be completely normal -- genius? -- but I can try. I guess I should try."

"You'll do great," John tells him gently, and means it. "Come on, let's get some sleep."

Rodney comes along with him willingly enough, stopping at the side of John's bed, hesitant. John goes over and puts his arms around Rodney from behind and hugs him.

"Don't worry," he says. "Things will seem better in the morning."

"They don't seem so bad right now," Rodney says, turning to look at him.

"Even though your secret identity isn't a secret anymore?" John asks, smiling.

Rodney groans and rolls his eyes. "Shut up," he grumbles, "or I might start referring to you as my sidekick."

John laughs and pushes Rodney down onto the bed, reaching for the waistband of his boxer shorts. "I don't think you'll be needing this costume anymore," he says. "You know, now that your secret has been revealed."

And unsurprisingly, Rodney doesn't complain as John goes to work undressing him.

  
  


End.


End file.
